


The Three Travellers

by pigeonking



Series: The Chronicles of Mord [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Folklore, Horror, Monsters, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 08:37:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16828972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonking/pseuds/pigeonking
Summary: This is my own personal take on the Three Billy Goats Gruff story, except with people instead of goats...





	The Three Travellers

Three men were sat in a tavern in Norway. The setting of the sun was but an hour away, not that the sun could be seen on a dark cloudy day such as the one that was coming to its end. When the sun did finally go down then dark would just get darker.

These three men did not know each other, nor did they sit together. All three had their own separate agendas.

The first was a skinny Christian priest who had ventured over from Briton to try and convert pagan heathens that worshipped Thor and Odin to the cause of his own white-Christ deity. He did not know it, but he was lucky to have survived this long among people who often went on long voyages across the sea to pillage Christian monasteries and slaughter priests such as himself. Truth be told, many of the people he had encountered thus far had thought him an idiot and had spared his life out of pity. So far he had managed to convert three goats and a sheep to the cause of Jesus Christ, but no human beings.

The second man was a fat pelt merchant who loved to brag about all of the money he intended to make selling the pelts of mink, foxes and the like to the people in the next village. Upon entering the tavern he had ordered three whole suckling pigs and three flagons of ale and had consumed them all in less time than it had taken the cook to prepare them. He had thanked the cook and the tavern keeper with a belch that had reverberated around the bar room like the rumbling of a hungry dragon’s belly.

The third man was Mord Liutson.

He just sat alone quietly, sipping his ale as he listened to the other two men talking to the tavern keeper.

“I want to get to the next village before sundown. Is there a short cut that I can take?” the skinny priest was asking.

Before the tavern keeper could answer the fat merchant chimed in.

“I too would like to get to the next village before the sun sets. Tell me the shortest route and there’ll be a coin in it for you.”

The tavern keeper set down the rag that he had just been using to clean out the inside of one of his tankards and regarded both men with serious eyes.

“I can tell you of a short path to the next village that would get you there just after sundown, but I would advise you not to take it.” He said eventually. “I have rooms upstairs. Stay the night here and travel on in the morning. That’s if you know what’s good for you.”

This advice did not sit well with either of the two men.

“I am but a humble priest. A servant of God and our Lord Jesus Christ. I cannot afford to pay for lodgings in your tavern. I must travel on now.” The first man replied meekly.

“I could afford a room if I wanted one.” The fat merchant answered gruffly. “But why should I part with my hard earned money when the next village is so close?”

“Take my rooms or not.” The tavern keeper continued. “I would still advise you not to travel along the route that I would tell you.”

“Tell me of the route and I will give you two coins instead of one.” The fat merchant insisted.

The tavern keeper’s bushy brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“You would pay me for this information, but you will not pay for one of my rooms?”

The fat merchant reached into his pouch and produced the two promised gold coins. This was his answer.

The tavern keeper shrugged his broad shoulders and accepted the coins from the merchant.

“Very well. There is a bridge to the east that will take you over the river and onto a road that runs straight to the village you seek, but I would advise against using it.”

The fat merchant rose to his feet, seemingly none the worse for wear after his hearty feast and the three flagons of ale. He thanked the tavern keeper and left.

Shortly afterwards the skinny priest also got up and left. The tavern keeper did not try and stop him for he knew that it was pointless to try and reason with an idiot.

Once they had gone Mord looked up and met the tavern keeper’s gaze with a sardonic smile.

“I did try to warn them.” The tavern keeper shrugged.

“Aye, that you did, my friend.” Mord agreed and he downed the rest of his ale in one gulp. He then shoved himself to his feet and made for the door. “I suppose I’d better go after them.”

The tavern keeper watched him leave and then picked up his rag to resume cleaning.

The skinny priest found himself walking alone along the road east under the grey clouds which were taking on a darker hue every minute as the otherwise invisible sun continued its inevitable crawl below the horizon. He had hoped that he would have the fat merchant for company on this lonely road, but the stable boy had removed the saddle from the merchant’s horse, having mistakenly believed that the corpulent pelt pedlar would be spending the night at the tavern. The skinny priest had heard the merchant fly into a rage and demand that the stable boy re-saddle his horse immediately and that was the last that the priest had heard of him before he had set off for the village on his own. He had not seen the tall warrior leave the tavern.

The road on which the skinny priest walked was flanked on one side by trees and by hills on the other and twisted around to the west the further he went along it so that very soon he could no longer see the tavern that he had left behind. Ahead he could hear the roar of the river Glaumr and he was thankful that there would be a bridge for him to cross it. He did not relish the thought of trying to wade across such a violent sounding stretch of water.

The bridge, when he came to it, seemed sturdy enough, made as it was from strong oak wood planks and timber. Slowly and carefully the skinny priest stepped onto the bridge and started across it.

He was half way across the bridge when a large shape came into view at the other end, blocking his exit.

The skinny priest looked up at the sudden intrusion and instantly pissed himself, a dark stain spreading rapidly across the front of his smock and a warm wetness dribbling down his thighs.

Towering over him there stood a goliath of a creature, its stony grey skin still glistening and dripping with the waters of the river from whence it had emerged. Whatever it was it stood over seven feet tall and was naked from head to foot. It was clearly male, as the skinny priest could tell from the massive member that dangled grotesquely between the monster’s wiry tree trunk legs, but even more gruesome was the thing’s face, a gnarled and twisted visage with a protruding jaw that seemed to carry a perpetual, slathering leer as globules of slimy spittle cascaded over ragged, dagger-like teeth like salmon over a waterfall. Narrow yellow eyes with dull black irises stared down at the skinny priest over a tiny pig-like nose. There was not a hair upon the creature’s hide or head, but in places it was covered in blotches of lichen, presumably acquired from its watery domain. Its nightmarish appearance was completed by two long arms like bent fishing poles that ended in huge hands with five fingers on each that ended in dirty black talons that could no doubt hook fish out of the water with one fell swipe.

The troll, for that was what it was, regarded the skinny priest with hungry eyes, licking its slimy lips with a long greasy grey tongue.

“Welcome, little man, to my humble bridge.” The troll gargled in a voice that sounded like he was trying to speak from a mouth constantly filled with water. “You are just in time for dinner.”

“D-d-dinner? What are we going to eat?” the priest asked, daring to hope that this abomination in the eyes of God might actually prove to be friendly despite its fearsome aspect.

“Why, little man,” the troll replied. “You of course!” And he reached out one of his long arms and snatched up the priest into the air, his legs dangling helplessly as the troll drew him in closer for the first bite.

“P-please don’t eat me!” the priest begged. “There is a fat merchant on the road behind me and he has a horse. He would be a much better meal than I. Please let me go and eat him instead!”

The troll seemed to consider this for a moment, holding the priest at arm’s length as he pondered.

Eventually he decided.

“There will be no instead. I will wait for this fat merchant and catch him and his horse too. Then I will eat you and he and his horse together and oh what a feast I shall have tonight!” the troll declared, and with those words he slapped the priest unconscious with a whack from his great hand and hid his prone form behind a nearby rock. Then the troll returned to the river to await the coming of the fat merchant.

As he spurred his horse onwards down the eastern road the fat merchant cursed the tavern’s stable boy under his breath for the significant delay that he had incurred from having to wait for his saddle to be reinstated. By now the sun had dipped completely below the horizon and on a clouded night such as this one there was no light to be provided by either moon or stars. He had been forced to find a large branch, swaddle the end of it in rags and then light it on fire just so that he could have some form of illumination to guide him on his way. As a result he was forced to ride one handed as he held his flaming branch aloft with his other hand. He thanked Odin that the ride would at least be a short one.

The fat merchant had been aware of the tall, formidable looking warrior that had left the tavern after him and as he had ridden off into the night he had passed the stranger on the road and left him eating his dust.

Very soon the fat merchant came upon the bridge that the tavern keeper had mentioned. He kicked his heels into the flanks of his long-suffering horse to coax it quickly across the raging river. The sooner he got to the village then the sooner he could find himself a good wench to bed down with for the night. In truth that was the real reason that he had been reluctant to spend the night at the tavern. What sort of tavern had no wenches in it?

He was half way across the bridge when his horse suddenly reared up onto its hind legs and whinnied in sheer terror at the shape that had appeared in front of them without warning.

The fat merchant lost his grip on the reins and fell hard upon his arse on the hard oak wood planks of the bridge, his torch clattered from his other hand and fell over the side into the water, plunging everything into darkness.

In that split second before total blackness prevailed, however, the fat merchant had seen the terrifying form of the troll as it reached out and broke the horse’s neck with one blow from its gnarled fist. The merchant’s bowels opened and excreted shit into the seat of his britches where he sat and the foul stench of excrement mingled with the rotting fish odour of the troll’s rancid breath as it lumbered up to the hapless merchant and snatched him up in one hand.

“Welcome, little man, to my humble bridge.” The troll gargled. “You are just in time for dinner. You and your horse and that skinny priest are on the menu and oh what a feast I shall have tonight!”

“P-please don’t eat me!” the merchant begged. “There is a warrior on the road behind me, leaner than I. He would make you a far healthier meal than I ever would, made up of fat and gristle as I am. Please let me go and eat him instead.”

The troll seemed to consider this for a moment, holding the merchant at arm’s length as he pondered.

Eventually he decided.

“There will be no instead. I will wait for this lean warrior and catch him too. Then I will eat you, your horse, the priest and this warrior together and oh my, oh my what a feast I shall have tonight!” the troll declared, and with those words he slapped the merchant unconscious with a whack from his great hand and hid his prone form and the dead horse behind a nearby rock. Then the troll returned to the river to await the coming of the warrior.

The troll waited under the bridge, his head just barely breaching the water so that he could listen out for the footsteps from above. He had exceptionally keen hearing. It was essential considering that he had the roaring of the river to contend with too.

Before too long the troll heard the soft footfalls of someone stepping onto the bridge with booted feet. Immediately the troll crept stealthily out from under the bridge and out of the river to place himself at the end of the bridge and block the warrior’s path ahead.

When the troll was ready at the bridge’s exit he was rather perplexed to discover that there was, in fact, nobody on the bridge at all… it was empty!

The troll stepped onto the bridge and walked all the way down it to the other end, looking about him from side to side as he went, peering into the darkness. Trolls have exceptionally good night vision.

He reached the other end of the bridge, but of the warrior there was no sign.

Where could he have gone?

The troll turned around and headed back up the bridge. He was half way across when a tall shape came into view at the other end, blocking his exit.

The troll looked across at the sudden intrusion and instantly pissed himself, putrid piss fountaining out of the end of his huge member to splash upon the boards of the bridge on which he stood.

Ahead of him there stood a goliath of a man, his leather jerkin still glistening and dripping with the waters of the river from whence he had emerged. He stood over six feet tall and was dressed from head to foot in tough looking leather armour that looked to have been cut from the hide of a small dragon. His face was ugly by troll standards, though humans would probably find him handsome with his rugged, unkempt beard and long brown hair tied into a single braid. Within that beard the troll could tell that the warrior was smiling. There was no fear to be seen in those dark eyes. The troll could see that the warrior wielded two seax blades, one in each hand.

Mord Liutson, for that was who it was, regarded the gangly troll with mayhem in his eyes.

“Welcome, little troll!” Mord sneered. “You are just in time for dinner.”

“D-d-dinner?” the troll gargled fearfully. “What are we going to eat?”

“Why, little troll, I’m going to eat the fat man’s horse, but my priest and merchant friends are going to be eating you!” Mord replied.

“B-but, trolls do not make good eating!” the troll stammered. “Our flesh is much too tough and bitter tasting!”

“I know.” Mord answered with a grin. “It’ll serves them right for ignoring the tavern keeper’s warnings and oh what a feast they shall have tonight!”

**The End…**

**…Come on, you all know what happens next!**


End file.
